


Oh, What An Indication

by fnowae



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Fantasy, Humor, M/M, Magic, because fuck u that's why, i guess ?, later on at least, witch!pete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 11:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12297966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fnowae/pseuds/fnowae
Summary: Pete is a mostly inexperienced witch in desperate need of a singer. Trying to use magic to find one probably wasn't the best idea he's ever had. Now he has one less guitar and one more pissy roommate who wishes Pete's botched spell hadn't affected him as much as Pete does.Dear god, Petehopesthis guy can sing.---Or, in the words of my friend: "The Little Mermaid except it's a guitar."





	Oh, What An Indication

**Author's Note:**

> haha kell how did you forget this one earlier 
> 
> anyways. I'm writing peterick again? shudder. but it just happened and I love this idea sooooooo,,
> 
> also last night was my Imagine Dragons concert and it was fuckin great. love them boys. ok
> 
> enjoy!

It could be said that there are two sides to every person, though usually such a statement would be referring to someone with, possibly, a nice side and a mean one, a side that likes sports and a side with a niche interest in early 18th century pottery, or someone with a side that's shy and another that's surprisingly social. 

But in Pete's case, it would be referring to the side of him that works in a generic coffee shop and plays a little bit of bass in his free time, and the side of him that is maybe, sort of, a little bit, a witch. 

The latter is not something Pete considers important. He doesn't talk about it, doesn't tell people about it, and most times, he doesn't even do any actual magic. 

Unless, of course, it's beneficial to him. 

Which is why, on a chilly mid-autumn Saturday afternoon, for the first time in months, Pete is trying to cast a spell. 

It's been so long since Pete's even touched his ratty spellbook - handed down from his parents years ago, like an important heirloom, and mostly forgotten since - that he has to blow off a thin layer of dust when he gets it out. Pete doesn't really like using this thing at all, but his agenda today is important. He isn't just helping himself with this one. He's helping his friends, too. 

See, here's the issue - Pete and his friends have a sort of personal project going on, the phrasing of which is an attempt to not admit they're a perfect example of the "friends trying unsuccessfully to start a band" trope. Their lack of success can be traced back to one small issue - they don't have a singer. 

Vocals are kind of, maybe, really important. And as of now, Pete and his cohorts in trope - Andy and Joe - have nothing on that front. Joe can sing, but he's forever insisting that he's "just more of a backing vocals kind of guy", Andy is set on drumming, and Pete singing is, to put it nicely, equivalent to a cat being tortured as nails are simultaneously scratching on a chalkboard. So, long story short, they're really in need of a singer. 

How, exactly, does this relate to Pete pulling out the old spellbook? Well, he's gonna find them a fucking singer, no matter what. If magic is what it takes, then that's what Pete's gonna do. 

He even has a plan, for once in his life. He knows a relatively simple spell that's able to locate things - mostly, it's supposed to help find lost objects, but Pete figures it can fine him a singer just fine, too. 

So Pete sets off to clean his trash heap of a kitchen table, planning to use that surface to cast his spell. He'll get it done and over with as soon as possible, the band will succeed, and he'll never need to so much as look at the junky spellbook again. 

Pete begins tossing the garbage aside, setting it in a messy pile on the floor to make room. He ends up coming across plenty of things he didn't even remember he had - for instance, there's his old shitty laptop that almost still works, if booting up and immediately dying again counts as working. He also finds twenty books he was supposed to read for the book club he signed up for months ago on a whim and never actually went to, an extension cord he's pretty sure he stole from Joe, a half-eaten box of cinnamon roll flavored Oreos that probably aren't completely bad yet (or at least Pete hopes not, because he just ate three), and two pages analyzing why Star Wars is a biblical metaphor, which Pete doesn't remember writing, nor does he think the theory of which has any true bearing. Just as he thinks he's run out of random lost things to find, he comes across the old accoustic guitar (affectionately nicknamed 'Patrick' as a fuck you to Andy and Joe after they told Pete he had to "name it something sexy") that his friends made him buy a couple months ago, claiming learning to play it would be "fun" and "helpful", but after two days of trying it had proven to be neither of the two. The thing's probably been buried under the table trash for a month now. Pete sighs loudly, placing it precariously atop the pile of the other things he'd uncovered, all of and which is now leaning against the kitchen wall. Finally, the table is clean. Pete opens the book and starts gathering ingredients. 

He uses a broken frying pan to mix things, tossing in however much the book tells him to of whatever increasingly fake-sounding herbs are listed. He does so with as much boredom as he can muster, not allowing himself to become too invested. He can finish this with no issues, just like always. He's sure of it. 

Except, as he's adding the last thing ("a single dried sage leaf", the book says), a bird unexpectedly flies straight into the window, causing Pete to jump and drop an entire spice shaker of sage into the pan. 

"Oh, _shit_ -" Pete blurts out, jumping back and instinctively ducking as the concoction starts to glow a troubling shade of dark blue. He's thankful he had the foresight to duck, because as he does, a spark of glowing blue light shoots out of the frying pan and flies right over his head. Pete watches as the spark soars haphazardly across the room, finally hitting home on his abandoned acoustic guitar with an explosion of grayish-blue smoke. Pete winces and squeezes his eyes shut, afraid of what he may have just done. He could have destroyed his kitchen, or his entire apartment, or maybe fucking killed someone, or-

"WHAT THE FUCK?"

Or there's someone else in the room all of a sudden. 

Pete hesitantly cracks one eye open, looking for the source of the outburst. He finds it pretty quickly - there's a stranger standing in his kitchen, staring at Pete with the same wide-eyed shock with which Pete is staring back. The stranger's arms are wrapped tightly around himself, fingers fidgeting weirdly with the fabric of the golden suit he's wearing, like he's amazed by the texture of it. Pet wonders briefly who the hell even wears stuff like that anymore. Then, another thought strikes him - what if, despite his mistake, the spell had worked, but just a little weirdly? Maybe it brought him a singer instead of just locating one. Now that'd be fucking convenient. 

Pete's thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the stranger spontaneously collapsing to the floor, letting out a surprised scream as he goes down. Pete is spurred into action, jumping to his feet and rushing across the kitchen to help. 

"Hey! Hey, are you alright?" Pete asks, kneeling down next to the fallen stranger, who seems to be staring down at himself with some mix of awe and concern. There's no response, and Pete is about to ask again, but he's interrupted. 

"LEGS!" the stranger yells suddenly, sounding extremely troubled, then reiterates, slightly louder, "FUCKING _LEGS_!" 

"Uh..." Pete frowns. He's suddenly less sure the spell has brought him a singer and more sure its brought him some random guy who, apparently, yells about legs a lot. Pete finally thinks to ask, "Uh, who are you?"

The stranger doesn't answer, just looks up, eyes still wide, so now he's staring at Pete instead of himself. 

Since the first question had obviously been a no-go, Pete tries something simpler. 

"What's your name?"

For a moment, the stranger is silent again, but then, after a couple moments of opening and closing his mouth as if he isn't sure what to say, he blurts out, "Don't you _know_ that?"

Pete frowns, confused. How could he possibly know that? "Uh...no? I've never seen you before in my life."

The stranger makes a face, obviously not understanding what Pete's said (though Pete can't fathom why), and finally responds, "But you're the one who _named_ me."

Pete is about to explain how ridiculous this allegation is, how he can't have possibly named the complete stranger sitting on his floor, but suddenly everything clicks into place. Pete's eyes settle on the wall behind the stranger, where a worn acoustic guitar no longer sits. 

"Oh, _fuck_ no," Pete breathes out, shaking his head, because he of all people shouldn't be surprised by weird magic, but this is something else entirely. This shouldn't even be possible. This _isn't_ possible. 

"You're _Patrick_ ," he finishes weakly, not believing his own words, even when the proof is right in front of him. 

" _Yes_ ," Patrick confirms, and Pete groans in response. Patrick is silent for a moment, studying Pete as if expecting a response, then, when he gets none, asks a question Pete wasn't expecting, and one he definitely can't answer. 

"What did you _do_ to me?"

**Author's Note:**

> if you wanna talk about this au (or any of my others) you can send me an ask on Tumblr at my fic blog @vicesandvelociraptors !! or if you wanna be that one guy and send it to my main, it's @wentzman. knock yourself out. 
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
